The Adventures of Hannibal the Tribble
by gwynhefar
Summary: Mirror!Verse Kirk discovers that Klingons are afraid of Tribbles. He immediately acquires one, and names it Hannibal. Hijinks ensue.
1. Chapter 1

"Bones! Bones, Bones, Bones, Bones, Bones!" Leonard McCoy swore under his breath as a whirlwind known as Captain James T. Kirk spun into his Medbay, his chanting increasing in volume to overcome the high-pitched whine of the instrument in McCoy's hand. Only his uncommonly steady hands saved him from making a mess of Ensign Dawson's arm.

"Jim, what did I tell you about barging in here when I'm working on something?"

"Don't!" the captain responded cheerfully. Leonard scowled.

"Have you been drinking?!"

"What? No!"

"Good god, man, why not?! That's the problem right there. You're starting to sound . . . perky. Bourbon's in the back of the sedative cabinet. Take it into my office and get a start while I finish up with the Ensign here."

"Ok Bones!" Leonard watched while his best friend and his best bourbon disappeared together into the back office, before turning back to the unfortunate Ensign Dawson. He surveyed his handiwork briefly, before flipping the switch to turn on the antique 20th-century tattoo machine that had belonged to his father. The man in the chair whimpered and Leonard sneered in disgust. Sure, rapidly injecting ink beneath the skin using multiple hypodermic needles wasn't exactly the most comfortable way to create skin art, but Dawson's wimpiness was embarrassing. Three hundred years ago 15-year-old girls used to do this for fun! Of course, in Dawson's case, the proximity of the tattoo to an open wound might have something to do with the man's pain tolerance.

"Now, Ensign. Care to enlighten me on exactly why you chose today of all days to sass that particular superior officer?"

"Today, sir? I was just having a bad day. Why was today worse than usual?" Leonard peered at the man's pale face.

"You really don't know, do you? Learn to gossip, man! It might save your life. Today is the day that the good Lieutenant Sulu received word that his family back on earth have sold him in marriage to the family of a particularly psychotic Russian navigator to end a centuries-old feud."

"Why would that be a problem, sir? I thought Lieutenant Sulu and Lieutenant Chekov were already together, sir."

"They are. They Chekovs paid a bride price." Dawson turned green.

"So when I . ."

"Let's just say it was not the best time to call into question an officer's manhood, especially when said officer is your superior and makes a habit of carrying around a sword. You're lucky you didn't lose the arm."

Leonard pulled back and looked over the arm in question. A long deep gash ran down the forearm, held together with primitive stitches. Stupidity injuries didn't deserve the dermal regenerator. A line of tattooed calligraphic text ran the length of the injury, a black arrow indicating the area of future scarring.

"Read this aloud for me Ensign," McCoy instructed.

"I got this by being stupid," Dawson read obediently.

"Now, you think that'll be enough to remind you not to do it again?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you sir!"

"Good. Now get the hell out of my Medbay." Dawson exited at a run, and McCoy busied himself cleaning the tattoo gun carefully and returning it to storage before heading for his office. Hopefully Jim hadn't finished off the bourbon yet. Leonard had a feeling he'd need it by the time the kid got around to explaining whatever had had him so excited earlier.

=========================

Jim hadn't finished the bourbon, although it was a near-thing, so Leonard could be forgiven for being so focused on the rapidly depleted bottle that he almost missed the brown ball of vibrating fuzz on the captain's shoulder. Almost.

"Jim? What the hell is _that_?" Jim plucked the creature from his shoulder and held it out to Leonard.

"Bones, this is Hannibal. Hannibal, Bones," Jim made the introductions. Bones scowled. Hannibal purred.

"I didn't ask what its name was, I asked 'what _is_ it?'"

"Oh. It's a tribble!"

"A tribble?"

"Yup! There was this trader down on the starbase that had them. Get this, Bones, Klingons are scared to death of tribbles!" Jim cackled with delight. Leonard reached over and picked up Hannibal by a flap of fur. The creature hung limp and continued to purr.

"Klingons are scared of _this_? Does it have invisible nasty, big, pointy teeth?" Jim giggled. Leonard reflected that maybe, just maybe, his best friend was a little bit mad.

"But seriously, Bones, this trader - Cyrano Jones - he had a couple he was selling as pets, and I was just walking by but then I noticed these two Klingons had noticed him, and Bones! They _cringed_. And then they _crossed to walk on the other side of the corridor!_ And I figured any creature that can scare a Klingon is a worthy . . . what d'you call 'em? Not a pet - like a companion animal - sorcerers had them . . ."

"A familiar?"

"Yeah! That's it. Any creature that can scare a Klingon is a worthy familiar for Captain James T. Kirk." Jim plucked Hannibal out of Leonard's fingers and planted him back on his shoulder. "It'll be like Sulu and his sword. Everywhere I go, Hannibal will be with me, glaring at my enemies."

Leonard sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

"Jim. Sulu's sword is sharp and deadly. It's intimidating. That thing," Leonard pointed an accusing finger at Jim's shoulder, "is a fuzzball! A cute, _purring_ fuzzball."

"A cute purring fuzzball that scares Klingons."

"They won't know that." Jim grinned.

"But that's the _point_ Bones. They won't know that. They won't know what he's for. They'll drive themselves crazy trying to figure it out. I bet it'll be like that fairy tale, you know, where everyone's too scared to tell the Emperor he's naked. I bet you the only person who even mentions Hannibal tomorrow will be Spock. Everyone else will pretend he's not even there until they can figure out how they're supposed to react. It'll be good, you'll see. Keep everyone on their toes." Leonard sighed.

"I don't think it's a good sign that some of that actually made sense. So you're going to carry around a purring fuzzball as your familiar partly because it scares Klingons, but mostly just to mess with everyone's head?" Jim nodded enthusiastically.

"Yep!"

"How do you plan on keeping Spock from calling you on it?" Jim waved him off.

"I'll just point out to him that it's illogical to pre-judge a creature without all the relevant facts. That'll send him into a frenzy of tribble-research and get him out of my hair." Jim reached up and scratched Hannibal's back? head? and was rewarded with a soft cooing sound. Leonard finished off the bourbon bottle and wondered how he had never noticed his life going crazy until it got there.

Jim was right though. He performed all his duties with Hannibal perched on his shoulder, and no one said a word. Not even Spock, who was trying not to purr. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Spock was in a quandary. It had been a week since the captain had begun carrying his . . . acquisition . . . wherever he went. Despite Doctor McCoy's pessimistic prediction that a captain that carried around a fluffball on his shoulder would lose some of what McCoy colloquially referred to as "the fear factor," the opposite seemed, in fact, to be the case. Even Spock had to admit that the sight of the captain overseeing agony booth sessions with a smile on his face and a purring Hannibal (named after the third-century general, not the twentieth-century serial killer: Spock had inquired) on his shoulder presented a tableau humans generally referred to as "creepy." In fact, despite the distinct lack of opportunity over the past week for striking fear in the hearts of Klingons everywhere, the captain seemed dangerously close to deeming the tribble experiment a success and establishing a permanent program. A program that, if implemented, threatened to destroy everything Mr. Spock had ever achieved in his long and distinguished career in Star Fleet, and possibly even have impacts on the status of Vulcans in the Empire.

It was a little known fact but hardly a secret that the Vulcan species was descended from a creature resembling a Terran feline. In fact, many Vulcans considered this to be a point of pride, certainly more dignified than the human descent from an ape. It was reflected in Vulcan poise and grace, in their impeccable balance and fluidity of movement. It was also, unfortunately, reflected in more obscure traits as well, such as the ability and impulse to purr. And it was this trait that threatened everything Spock held dear. For every time he was within five meters of the captain's cursed beast he had to suppress the nearly uncontrollable urge to purr at it! The situation was becoming intolerable. Something must be done.

Which is why Spock had taken this rare opportunity when the captain and his creature were temporarily separated to stealthily enter the captain's office and look upon his nemesis.

S'chn T'gai Spock was considered by many to be one of the most dangerous men in the Empire. The very sight of his impassive face has reduced many a grown man to tears, and a quirk of his eyebrow has caused more than one officer to relieve themselves in terror. Spock quirked his eyebrow. The tribble cooed. Spock touched his communicator.

"Doctor McCoy."

"What is it, Spock?"

"Hypothetically speaking, were something to happen to the Captain's . . . creature . . . what would you predict to be his reaction?" McCoy grunted.

"Predation is the natural order of things. I'm sure the Captain would react stoically to the loss." The delighted smile that crossed Spock's face then usually heralded the death of an unlucky ensign for the sake of science.

"I see." But McCoy continued, still sounding bored.

"What do I get to kill?" Spock's eyebrow lifted of its own accord.

"Excuse me?"

"What ate the fuzzball? Just because predation is the natural order of things doesn't mean it shouldn't be punished. Does it at least have a decent value on the black market?"

"I am unsure . . . "

"You mean I gotta track the thing?! Dammit man, I'm a doctor, not a wildlife expert!" Spock cleared his throat in a way that was not at all nervous.

"I'm afraid I've been misunderstood, Doctor. The . . . creature is unharmed. My question was entirely . . . hypothetical." McCoy sounded unconvinced.

"Are you sure? Because I was reading this article just the other day on the use of Vulcan livers in . . . "

"Yes, I am certain. The tribble is safe."

"Huh. Well, if you change your mind . . ."

"I shall keep you informed." Spock most definitely did not sigh in relief. He sent the tribble one last withering glare before turning to exit the captain's office.

"Er . . . Mr. Spock?" McCoy's voice reached from the still-open communicator.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Are you _purring_?!"

Despite his plans for elimination of the threat being discovered and thwarted by Doctor McCoy, Spock still held out hope for the removal of his enemy from the captain's good graces. Unfortunately, the tribble was clearly designed to be as inoffensive as possible. Even Spock's plan to casually remark to Doctor McCoy how 'close' the captain and his tribble were becoming (the circumstances under which Spock discovered that the captain did, in fact, have "Property of Leonard Horatio McCoy, M.D" tattooed across his ass were ones he had no desire of reproducing, but the sentiment was relevant nonetheless) backfired spectacularly and led to a sleepless night of bizarre noises from the throats of both men and beast emanating from the cabin next door. Before Spock was even able to put together another workable plan, chance placed the final proverbial nail in his coffin.

The Enterprise had responded to reports of a supply ship being ambushed by Klingons, and arrived to find two Birds of Prey looting Tholongian merchant ship. The Tholongians paid good money to the Empire for the protection of their ships, so not only was conflict unavoidable, but it was moreover necessary to prevent further damage to the Tholongian vessel. Spock was sure that Kirk had a plan when he hailed the lead Klingon ship - Kirk always had a plan - but whatever it may have been was immediately rendered moot. As the face of the Klingon captain appeared on the main screen, Hannibal shuddered and let out an ear-piercing shriek. The captain was barely able to catch him as the tiny creature attempted to launch itself in attack at the viewscreen. The reaction of the Klingon was equally remarkable. Spock had never before seen a Klingon lose color so rapidly and shouts of pain and fear could be heard from the other officers on the Klingon's ship. Kirk tightened his hold on Hannibal and stroked him soothingly, the shrieking fading out as he did so. Into the following stunned silence Kirk took control.

Within minutes the Klingons had offered unconditional surrender to Captain Kirk, Beast-Tamer. Kirk closed the connection and spun around in his chair.

"Well. That was . . . interesting." And then he began laughing. Hannibal cooed. And began to purr. Spock allowed himself a moment of human weakness and put his head in his hands.

Eventually, Kirk regained his composure and called Lieutenant Chekov over.

"Chekov, I have a very important job for you. But first I want you to know that you are one of the most delightfully vicious men on this ship, and I respect the hell out of your work." Chekov beamed.

"Thenk you, Keptan."

"And it is because I have so much respect for you that I am trusting you with this job. You have to know you're one of youngest, and most brilliant officers we have. You also look like you're twelve. So I want you to take Hannibal here and go down to the shuttlebay. And when they start bringing the prisoners on board I want you to give them your creepiest, most psychotic smile and pet Hannibal until he purrs. The Klingons are scared of tribbles? I want them to think our children cut their milkteeth on tribble young." Chekov accepted Hannibal with awe.

"Yes, sir, Keptan, sir! You can count on me! I von't let you down!" And then the kid skipped - actually skipped - out off the bridge.

At least with the exit of Hannibal, Spock could stop purring under his breath.

The Enterprise escorted the wounded Tholongian ship to the nearest star base, where they also transferred custody of their Klingon prisoners. Not coincidentally, this happened to be the same star base where, less than a month earlier, Captain Kirk had obtained the newest member of the Enterprise bridge crew. Thanks to a some creative record editing, Ensign Hannibal was now officially on the roster, and pulled duty alongside the captain. He even had a uniform, mini vest and gold sash painstakingly sewn from some of Kirk's damaged uniforms by Sulu, who had gotten over being called a wife if it meant he could still fuck Pavel into the mattress, and embraced his inner homemaking geek. Far from being the joke McCoy had originally feared he'd be, Hannibal had become a sort of ship mascot, and any negative comment or criticism was dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly by the bridge crew. As Kirk had said to one rival captain who was lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit at Kirk's feet, "Respect me, respect my tribble."

Even Spock seemed to have come around. He had stopped trying to avoid Hannibal's presence, a change in behavior that would be explained come Alpha shift when, embracing the Terran principle of "if you can't beat them, join them," Spock would introduce his new black tribble, Clarice, to the bridge. At least with Clarice around, Spock reasoned, any purring could be blamed on her.

And so as the Enterprise headed out into the vastness of space once again, a sleepy, purring tribble named Hannibal was curled up the bedside table, his soft trilling soothing the Captain's and Doctor's dreams. A new scent was drifting in from the chambers down the hall, and Hannibal woke briefly to sniff. "Mate," his sleepy mind identified. All was right in his world.

The End.


End file.
